


A Cannibal's Eyrie

by amoralagent



Series: Murderer? I Barely Know Her! [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angry Will Graham, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Dark, Don't Try This At Home, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal reaps what he sows, Hostage Situations, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Maybe I'm not sure, Murder Husbands, Non-Explicit Sex, Possessive Hannibal, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, References to Drugs, References to canon - book, Smug Hannibal, Tired Will, Well not really, What Have I Done, What the fuck Hannibal, Will Graham Helps Himself, Will Graham is a Cannibal, Will Loves Hannibal, Will is done with Hannibal's shit, and proud?, but still hot ok, cannibalism (DUH), he means well, hostages, more like straight up torture, no one can blame him, no really Hannibal is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-01-21 10:23:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12455550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoralagent/pseuds/amoralagent
Summary: He looked at Hannibal, impassive, as if a joke hadn't landed: "Whose blood is that?""I can't be sure." Hannibal offered, rather disinterested.After Hannibal has spent a week apart from Will to indulge his passion for the opera, he comes home with blood all over him, and a lovely surprise for Will. Well, he thinks it's lovely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lowkey inspired by Tin Star.

It was around four in the morning when Will heard the door snap shut, with a careful hand, barely a tap as the latch closed. Two steps in the door and Hannibal was warmly greeted by the barrel of an empty gun pressed just below his collarbone: "Where have you been?" Hannibal smiled a little in the dark, staying quiet for too long so Will cocked the gun. Perhaps it wasn't empty-- _"Hannibal."_

"Turn on the light, Will."

"Why?"

"It will answer your question." Will grumbled something under his breath and moved away, with the gun steady and raised, and smacked on the light. One look down and he lowered his arm, sighing contemptuously. He looked at Hannibal, impassive, as if a joke hadn't landed: "Whose blood is that?"

"I can't be sure." Hannibal offered, rather disinterested. It'd started to dry by now, clotted and vibrant all up his forearms and soaked into his shirt on the torso, a lonely spattering trailing up his neck. Only a few drops had run down his wrist and fallen from his fingertips as he stood there, having marked the door handle too. Will marched over to the kitchen, pistol landing with a click and clatter on the marble countertop.

"Are you hurt?" He glanced at him for a moment, tone curt but actual visible concern passing over his features, and turned to fill a glass bowl with water.

Hannibal followed him, standing far enough away to give the storm space: "No. I'm fine." Will collected a sponge and turned back to him, wetting it and putting the bowl on the side.

"Nine days, Hannibal." He stated, an edge to his voice, like a growl, "Nine _fucking_ days. You told me you'd be gone for a _few_ , not more than a _week_." This was true, in fact, he'd near enough assured him that he wouldn't be gone for long, kissing him on the forehead as he did. It was a trip to a big city, much further away, far further than they'd separated themselves before; leaving Will alone in the woods- spare the company of the dogs- for so long he might've developed cabin fever. Or worse, appetency. Before long, his thoughts were like butterflies caught in a net. All gangly and frenzied, never still; _he_ was never still, pacing and wandering around the empty house the same as some lonely creature behind cage bars. While Hannibal was gallivanting off somewhere, having a grand old time.

And all for a showing of _Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg_ Hannibal had been asked to accompany a fellow patron of the arts to, which had subsequently lead to attending a few other showings of different operas, among other, more nefarious things, it seemed. Will took Hannibal's hand in his and carefully wiped it down as he spoke, "You could've at least called."

"I lost my phone." Will scoffed at that, not buying it for a second. It didn't even sound convincing when he said it. And to think Will had been pining and worrying like some lost fucking puppy, hardly sleeping, half because of the anxiety, half because of the coldness of the bed without someone to cuddle up to. He'd debated allowing the dogs to pile in with him, but had ultimately not become that desperate-- _well_ , not _every_ day. Cut him a little slack.

Rather ironically, Hannibal seemed to be the one thrive under attention, moving that little bit closer, into his personal space, and, weirdly, Will didn't move away; cleaning him up like it was a perfectly normal occurrence. Red stained the sponge and blossomed in the water, vivid under this new lambency. Something alive. Once Hannibal spoke again he had a warmth to his tone with the same familiarity and cadence as an old friend. All his focus was on Will's face: "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"Or forgetful." Will countered, without meeting his gaze. He continued washing the blood from between Hannibal's fingers and the lines of his palms for a while without speaking, rinsing it off and moving away to change the water: "Is that what you were testing, then?" He asked, facing away, "How much I would miss you?"

"Is that what you'd like me to say?"

"No--" When he turned around Hannibal was practically nose-to-nose with him, but he didn't jump three foot in the air this time. He only exhaled sharply; Will had managed to acclimatise himself to his artifice, the sneaky bastard. He was going to offer some dry wit but an odd scent threw him off: "Have you been drinking?"

"Maybe," Hannibal inclined his head, moving slightly in search for Will's mouth, but Will angled his head away. Hannibal bridled himself a little at the rejection.

"You drove home drunk? That's not like you." Will mused, unconvinced. It came out as more of an affront than he intended, but the sting didn't hit it's mark. Hannibal still had that look on his face, so inscrutable and still. Utterly postured, yet cold and piercing. The look a starved predator would give an injured foal, devoid of sympathy. Only an intent of malice and dangerously resolute. With all the blood and the missable hunch of his posture that came about when he was in this-- state, Hannibal certainly looked more _feral_. Maybe it was only a matter of time befo-

" _I_ didn't drive." Will stopped washing him and looked at Hannibal then. Meeting that fixated stare. He was unimpressed.

"Don't tell me you-"

"He's in the car." He looked sly, voice a half-whisper, observing Will with a curious desire that made him feel like something was crawling around and scrabbling in his skull.

 _"He's still alive?"_ Hannibal nodded, once, that fucking smug smile creeping onto his face. Will moved away and dropped the sponge in the water, incredulous: "Why?"

"For you." Will curled his hands into fist, scoffing around a laugh, "As a peace offering. I thought you'd use your anger in a way that didn't involve it being taken out on me." He couldn't help his jaw going slack, only able to stare at Hannibal for a while. He was unsure whether to be more flattered, or more angry. Sighing heavily, he turned his back and leant against the counter for support. There were few things that would leave him so speechless.

"You've got to be _fucking_ kidding me, Hannibal?" He huffed, composing himself somewhat, "And the blood?"

"Somebody else's."

_"Where are they?"_

"In the trunk of the car."

"Are _you_ \--" Will stifled himself, breathing deeply, and rubbing both hands over his face: "This is the logic of a cat, Hannibal. To bring home mutilated things to please their family."

When he snuck up behind him again a hand tucked itself under the hem of his shirt and he flinched at the touch, fingers tracing the line of his hip: "Are you pleased?" Will quickly grabbed the wrist of the intrusive hand, initially to pull it off him and push past and go back to bed with a sweet _fuck you very much_ , but that was initially, and when it comes down to it Will is a _fucking sap._ He found himself just holding the hand there, almost interlocking fingers, the feeling of Hannibal's body heat and breath and voice in proximity making him realise just how much he _had_ missed him.

Featherlight touches of soft lips resting against the nape of his neck made him shiver, physical contact so unfamiliar now, "I _am_ pleased. I'm pleased that you're back, anyway." Hannibal took that as forgiveness and hooked his other arm around his torso, sliding under the shirt to pull him close, nosing against his curls to inhale there: "Can we-- um- not do anything about the...  _hostages_ , right now?" Will laid his hands atop the ones held him, streaking his skin and shirt with traces of blood, leaning his head back against Hannibal's shoulder with his eyes closed in ungodly prayer: "I'm way too fucking tired."

"What would you like me to do?-" The pause was punctuated by a gentle graze of teeth against his ear lobe, a hand moving lower, "With them?" With the same adoring trepidation as an artist carving stone, Hannibal kissed down the side of Will's neck, nuzzling his face at the join of his shoulder, teasing a more enchanted sigh from him and feeling him relax, turn pliable.

"Put them in the basement. Let them stew." His tone coloured callous: "I take it that they're _both_ still alive?" The agreeable hum in response vibrated through him, the skin of his nape alighting in chills for more reasons than one.

"Fear ruins the meat." Hannibal reminded, biting as if to illustrate his point, and Will groaned. Expectedly so.

"You can remedy that, just dose them up on something." He half-shrugged, notably tripe. There was a tiny satisfied smile there, even if Will didn't feel it: "And-- _stop_ , because you want to christen our kitchen counter, and before long, I'll let you."

"Is that such a bad thing?" Hannibal absolved, teeth scraping at Will's stubbled jaw and slipping a hand down the front of his slacks, humming, "I thought you would be too tired?"

Will made a small sound of consideration, smiling , "A little bit of wearing out wouldn't be too bad."

Hannibal's hold on him was fiery and overwhelming, his broad frame flat against his back like an imposing shadow. Something that could engulf him whole. The fanged teeth at his throat may as well have been a knife.

Will grumbled upon opening his eyes again, displeased- having just made eye contact with a curious pug across the room, "Not here. The dogs will see."

"They've seen worse."

"No, they- _ah_ \- no, they haven't." It was a half-truth, but Will indulged Hannibal's touches for a few more long moments, those hands deft and possessive. He was stifling moans into to guttural noises; now far too aware of the _victims-to-be_ still locked in the car and presence of the pack in the room, even if they were sleeping.

When he did move away his motions were only vaguely reluctant, and he surprised himself with the amount of restraint he'd magicked up when he hadn't been fucked in over a week, and that it was almost five in the morning to boot. His body should have been exhausted. Adrenaline, perhaps? Or stubbornness. _Or both?_

Whatever it was, it was whatever effect Hannibal had on him. _Constantly_.

Whilst washing up the sponge and bowl he had to shrug off Hannibal's lingering hands, despite his instincts telling him to do otherwise. He allowed the chaste embrace of his waist from behind following a sigh, made quite unchaste in that his blood had betrayed him by going southwards. Will tried his best to not lean into the contact: "Sort out your mess. If you get blood on the floor, you're cleaning up this time." He turned around in Hannibal's arms, taking him by the jaw and kissing him like he meant it, and fuck, did he mean it: "I have missed you."

"I know." Hannibal purred, and Will kissed him again. It was meant to be a tease but Hannibal didn't allow it, moving in to steal another breathless kiss before Will could speak- he basically had to peel Hannibal off of him.

"Sort them out." Will slipped past him to disappear back upstairs, flicking off the light on his way like in the company of the shadows, Hannibal would transform entirely and become a beast once more: "And don't keep me waiting." He added coquettishly, and the footsteps vanished.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened when Hannibal came to bed? How did Hannibal bring home his so-called present? And Why? 
> 
> More importantly: _whose liver is that and why is it on my kitchen side?_

Will always thought _made love_ was an uncomfortable and shitty phrase to use. He could never put his finger on why it made him feel that way either. But he understood why, with immense clarity, after the sex he'd had throughout hours of the night. Or early morning, really. Needless to say, _making love_ isn't exactly how he'd put it.

Hannibal had appeared in the dark like a predator, crawled into bed, over Will in seconds like a hunting dog, and staining the crisp sheets a graphic shade of crimson in his wake. It took Will a moment to adjust to the warmth of the hands on his neck and his hips, vicelike- it scared him a little bit, the sudden smell of blood- before he reciprocated with just as much need, bordering on anger, grabbing and clawing until clothes were gone and teeth were involved; he'd never begged before, or heard himself growl- their noises deep and keening, wild, echoing loud into the silent dark. He'd felt like Hannibal was claiming every inch of him, feeling the need to bite and lick and _mark_ , sinking his nails into the flesh of Hannibal's shoulders as he let him. His head swam when their mouths collided. Almost spilling over with want.

Will had met Hannibal's ferocity head on, gripping his hair with fervour as if tackling a furious antlered creature, hand around his throat unrelenting even when he was the one being fucked, fingers pushed into his inviting mouth. Spit-slicked lips, bites breaking skin giving way to the wet heat of tongues. He drove inside him like he wanted to _claw_ him open, to push his hands between his sternum and rip apart, accommodating himself wholly and _endlessly_ , gripping at the hair adorning Hannibal's chest as he lost the rhythm of his thrusts. If he hadn't have put a hand over Hannibal's mouth he would've heard a snarky comment about it, too.

The sweaty, bloodied entanglement of their bodies resembled something more animalistic in the shadows cast by the early light permeating the curtains. A dawn chorus seemed to rival the sounds of Will's moaned cries, cursing loudly, mouth open as he heaved in air, losing himself like a flock of birds scattering, release, rendered blind as aftershocks hit him; he didn't care if their new guests heard him or not, that much was clear. And he'd felt completely wrecked in the afterglow, sticky and radiating heat, but overwhelmingly satisfied to the point of passing out. Dazed by euphoria, he'd fallen asleep not too long after, Hannibal _still_ kissing and licking at his shaking thighs, moving up to his face and chest, whispering worship in languages he couldn't begin to know.

He woke up sore, and bruised along his collar, back, and inner thighs but he felt more awake than he'd done in days. He also woke up alone, the mattress lukewarm beside him and smeared red, as if a fight had broken out. _Not far from the truth_ , he mused, getting up.

There was a small, familiar-looking cooler on the kitchen counter that greeted him as he padded downstairs and into the kitchen- but no Hannibal. He didn't need to look in it to know what was in there. If he was lucky, it'd be a liver, and Hannibal could finally cook that new take on foie gras he'd been rattling on about; it had been too long since they'd had fresh meat. Will briefly wondered if that's what had sparked everything. And the illegality of public crucifixion. Yawning, he tried to ignore it and moved past it to make some coffee, glancing outside to find the dogs running around in the wet grass. He smiled at them.

Whilst eyeing the icebox and sipping, he noticed that every now and again he could hear some kind of muffled noise emanating from the basement. Noting the distinct lack of Hannibal, he'd figured he'd be down there, doing _something_ to whoever he'd bought home. Nothing good. He also knew, considering the reasons for them being there in the first place, nothing particularly bad would be happening to them without him being present. Which meant going down there. Is turning up to a hostage situation in your bed clothes a good idea? _No. No it fucking isn't_. He probably still had bloodstains on his skin too. After his coffee, he let the dogs in and decided to shower.

When the warm stream hit his skin he realised he was shaking. The house had a biting draft surging in from the cracked window plaster, curling up on the floor like a mist, but he doubted that was the cause. A bundle of nervous excitement had fixed itself in his lower abdomen making his stomach tighten, equally as hungry as it was flushed by adrenaline. He washed himself, purposefully not being gentle around the marks Hannibal's teeth and mouth had left, hoping the pain would do something to ground him. And then he thought of those incisors against his shoulder, resting on the sensitive skin of the scar there, breath hot and panting has Hannibal's pace had become erratic and reckless, and just on the verge he'd bitten down hard enough to break skin, toppling Will over the edge so suddenly he'd seen stars. It was red now, sealed up in scabs, but when Will wiped over it, it tingled.

Just as he's got to washing his hair and trying to tame the hot nerves converging in his stomach, Hannibal pressed up behind him in an embrace and his heart leapt into his throat, but he didn't jump, even when he felt Hannibal's lips against his ear, smiling: "Fancy seeing you here." His voice echoed, the splashing of the water doing little to interrupt the noise.

Will huffed, hands finding those around his waist, "You too. I thought you'd be having too much fun." He looked down and noticed that the water running down the drain was pink.

"I was just making sure they were where I left them, and that they're getting the intravenous supplements they need to sustain them. I changed her dressings too." Will could hear the smile still in his voice, and his fingers traced that scar along Will's stomach he loved to touch so much, moving up to lather the conditioner into Will's hair for him.

"Why?"

"Infection could spoil her." Hannibal said, casual. Will swallowed thickly.

"No, why did you take her organs? Already?" There was a pause and Hannibal washed Will's back for him without prompt.

"I'll explain it to you later."

"I want to know now, Hannibal." He looked a little over his shoulder and Hannibal moved to lean into his cheek.

" _Later_ , Will." He kissed his jaw, "I've prepared us breakfast first." Will turned more to capture his lips in a kiss, another attempt to absolve the anxious tension building up under his skin like insects, and for the most part, it did.

They had what Hannibal described as _pumpkin and cream cheese muffins with pecan streusel_ for a very late breakfast, which Will pointed out were just glorified cupcakes, so he ate it with his fingers like a child. He regretted his insult as soon as he had a mouthful however, as they were probably the best glorified cupcakes he'd _ever had_. He made sure to tell Hannibal as much, and he kissed a crumb from the corner of his mouth as he ate another one. Secretly, without Hannibal cooking for him, he'd suffered. For the first few days of his absence he'd survived on the leftovers Hannibal had pre-planned for him, but after that his diet had resumed that of his college days, just without the excessive drinking. Well, not _as_ _much_ drinking. In any case, he thanked the stars for Hannibal's (and his immense cooking abilities') return.

"You told me you'd tell me why you took her organs prematurely." Will reminded him, sitting back in his seat across from Hannibal at the table, and adjusting the opening of his robe between his legs. Hannibal had put on slacks and a sweater Will swore used to be his, hair swept back neatly, as if he didn't plan on rushing the day, being perfectly content with the fact that they had two awaiting victims just a few feet under them, "Or do I have to wait for lengthy monologue of your reasoning before you kill them?"

"I can smell your anxiety on you, Will. There's no need for it." Hannibal spoke over his coffee, bringing it to his lips. Will cocked his head and folded his arms across his chest.

"You didn't just bring them home for my benefit, you bought those two people, _specifically_." His tone was interrogative but Hannibal's expression remained placid, " _Why?_ What did they do to you?"

"The small group I accompanied the opera to where intent on going to a quiet nearby bar, and I was in no position to refuse them, so I joined them there. A girl approached me within the first half an hour or so." He stood up and started clearing the table, but continued, Will subtly enraptured, "She seemed kind, offered to buy the drinks for the group, and when I went up to the bar she followed, much like an eager puppy. We spoke, not about much, until a man decided to try to provoke me." Try to. He went over and started to clean the plates, looking over at Will intermittently, "It transpired that the woman I was talking to, was his girlfriend."

Will quelled a laugh, "Was he drunk?"

"Quite. At first I thought he was just defending his territory like a mere ape, but he knocked over my glass, and when I stood he put his hand on my chest--"

 

Hannibal had to look down at the man, being a few inches taller than him, eye contact fervent and dark, " _Hand_." He warned, calm and assertive, but the touch didn't waver. It had struck him that this stranger didn't seem like the kind of man to be picking fights, how groomed his face was, his dark hair styled precisely, the collared shirt still buttoned to the top. He still had a coat on, like he'd only just arrived, and he could smell lotion, a musky aftershave, and a certain brand of women's lipstick that he recognised, and he hadn't had its trace on his skin for a few days, but it lingered. Nevertheless, he could smell the alcohol radiating off of him, shrouding any other smell. Perhaps he had arrived drunk.

"Were you gonna fucking touch her? Would you have?" He spat back- _an American accent_ \- leaning in to impose on Hannibal's space, fingers pushing harder on his sternum. The man's supposed girlfriend called his name, had tried her best to pull him away, to no avail.

"Get your hand off of me, _Eamonn_." Hannibal instructed, seemingly relaxed, levelling his gaze.

"What the _fuck_ are you going to do about it? In front of all these people?" Without further caution, Hannibal grabbed the offending wrist hard enough to snap it, taking the collar of his shirt tightly in the other hand, dragging and throwing him out the doors of the bar.

Before going after him, he turned to his group of companions who were all rather preoccupied, adjusting a cuff on his jacket and assuring them, "I won't be a minute." Then casually following him out like nothing was awry. When he approached Eamonn, moving to get up from his sprawled position on the floor, mouthful of blood, he'd spat further repulsive, shallow insults, half-slurred. Hannibal took hold of the coat he was wearing and pulled him up, and he grabbed Hannibal back by his shirt, moving their faces close as if he were about to kiss him, finding his feet before whispering:

" _I know who you are_."

Hannibal's face changed then, something shifting uncomfortably under his mask, under the suit, shoulders seemingly broadening, a hint of a snarl threatening to curl his lips. Hannibal then turned and slammed him against the wall behind them. He could hear the girlfriend calling for them both to stop, that it was enough, but they both ignored her. Eamonn smiled at him, scarlet coating his teeth, and Hannibal adjusted his neck where the fabric of his shirt was chafing, trying his best to keep his control in check, "And you thought it would be wise to approach me?" He growled, voice strained.

The smug smile twisted into something more challenging, a gentle fear denting his brow, "You can't do anything so public. It'd be too risky." He choked out, and Hannibal easily flicked up a knife from just inside his sleeve and propped it against his throat, flesh dipping under the blade, and he watched the panic ripple across Eamonn's once hardened expression.

 

That same delicate varnish of panic was present on Will's face, just harder to see, "What did you do, Hannibal?"

"The threat of the knife made for a good incentive to do as I said." Hannibal admitted, wiping his hands of dish soap, "I got them both in the car without incident. I secured one of his hands to the steering wheel using handcuffs. Any smart moves, and I'd slit his girlfriend's throat." He looked Will in the eyes when he said the last part so he could see his conviction, and it was like looking into the sockets of a hollowed skull: empty. When he spoke about it, his tone, he sounded like he was reading out a shopping list; it wasn't difficult for him, and it wasn't horrid. Will looked away and sighed loudly.

He hunched over the table to touch the petal of a dark red peony, a bouquet of them and fuchsia-coloured gladiolus flowers in the centre of the table that he hadn't noticed before. They looked fresh: "Did you cut her open because of him?" He didn't meet Hannibal's eyes when they studied his face, but he felt their heated gaze.

"No. Only five minutes from the house she had undone her bounds and decided to try to escape. Poor girl, she only got a few feet from the car." He didn't sound convincingly sorry, more falsely sympathetic, "I had to injure her so she would be unable to try again, so I cut just below her left ribs. The fright of it made her faint. I picked her up and put her in the trunk after that, tied, used my jacket to prevent anymore blood ruining the interior of the car." Hannibal stood with his palms on the kitchen counter, watching Will pick the petal and worry it between his fingers, "I removed her liver last night when I could as she was still incapacitated, with help from light anaesthesia, simply because I didn't want adrenaline to sour the flavour."

" _Simply_." Will murmured, mostly to himself, leaving the petal in his place setting and standing up, "Didn't-- _Eamonn_ put up a fight?"

Hannibal tilted his head, a leer only detectable in the line of his brow, like he'd been offended, "People don't put up fights once you render them unconscious, Will." Of course.

Will nodded, quite considerately: "Does _she_ know who you are? Who _we_ are?"

Hannibal smiled lightly, a mirth to his eyes, "I suppose she does now." Will hummed, and moved away to go back upstairs to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for hostage scenes and violence! Huzzah!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is a bit too calm for everybody's liking. As always.
> 
> Oh, and Will is kinkshaming himself. _Classic Will._

_"Are you a killer, Will? You. Right now. This man standing in front of me. Is this who you really are?"_

Hannibal called up to him and said he was going out to collect ingredients, "Do you have to?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Hannibal offered. Will came out onto the landing in his boxers and pulling a shirt on, and looked down from over the bannister at Hannibal standing at the base of the stairs, "Will you be bereft without me?" He smiled and Will sighed quietly, buttoning his shirt.

"I was more concerned with how _you'd_ cope. Bringing home more _presents_." Will shot back, that sickening nervousness bubbling up again, moving back into the bedroom. He didn't hear Hannibal ascend the stairs.

"I'll be back before you know it," He attested, and Will wasn't surprised by his sudden presence, and watched as he moved past him and changed into some dark suit trousers, slipping on the jacket to match over the cable-knit sweater Will was now fully convinced used to be his, "It will only be for about an hour."

Will quirked a brow, "When has your concept of time failed you before?"

"Don't bother with our _guests_ when I'm gone--" He smiled back, voice silky. His hand touched the small of Will's back when he placed a kiss to the jagged scar across his cheek, and turned to leave, "I wouldn't want to miss all the fun."

"You're changing the bedsheets." Will mumbled, and heard Hannibal go. He scratched at where Hannibal had kissed, unsure of himself all of the sudden, and sat on the edge of the bloodied bed to choose what trousers to wear. Once he heard the front door snap shut, he blindly grabbed whatever pair was closest and yanked the khakis on, foregoing a belt, and tried his best to not rush down the stairs. There was no need to rush; they weren't going anywhere.

He found the door of the pantry to be wide open, through it, the door to the basement was shut tight, but not locked. In his mind, he imagined that it was dark down there, a lightbulb swinging, two witless husks of people tied with rope to wooden chairs, shadows elongated up the slate grey walls like marionette puppets stringed high. They'd be tethered to IV hookups, dazed as if tired. If they were mewling he probably wouldn't be able to hear them. He heard when they screamed. Maybe there was blood on the floor, on the walls, stark against the grainy concrete. Maybe they were lucid, or they weren't. He'd intended to go and find out, but after what Hannibal had asked, and what looking at the dark wood of the door felt like, he just stood there for a moment instead, heady with adrenaline and twisted branches of thought.

Eventually he was distracted by the pitter-patter of dog claws tapping on the wooden floor, and went out of the pantry and shut the door behind him. He collected a coat and the pack to go for a walk in the woods, away from anyone else's eyes, to clear his head. Hopefully.

In the breezy chill of the wind and amongst the sounds of ruffling leaves and the occasional crow cawing, he thought of red deer and blood in water. And how their shared tableau would come about. It didn't sicken him. It _should've_. Probably. Nothing really could anymore; it rattled him though, the fact that they were _there_. Waiting. Awaiting their inevitable end. Awaiting him, really. That still didn't exactly sit right, like a fishing hook through your numbed hand- barbed and horrendous. He felt _caught_.

Less like the lamb to slaughter, and more like a lurid, vilified creature that takes and mauls the lamb for meat.

The dog's feet were wet when they all erupted back into the house, mud trailing behind the few that had enjoyed digging or scampering through the puddles that were still around. Will huffed a sigh, thinking of that disapproving face that Hannibal would give him if he came home to mud on the floor. Blood and guts is fine, but _mud?_ He wouldn't get away with that. Reluctantly, Will cleaned up, and tried his hardest to ignore the muffled screams he heard from downstairs as the dogs whined and sniffed at the pantry door.

 

When Hannibal came back half an hour later than he said he'd be, Will had busied himself upstairs by reading a book, closed up in the spare room he'd used after the fall. He'd shut himself in, to shut out the noise. Predictably, he hadn't focused at all on the book. Hannibal tapped his knuckles against the wood of the door twice, "You don't need to knock." Will scoffed, and Hannibal opened the door.

"And you don't need to hide." He quipped, gently, a look of kind adoration on his face. Will shifted like he'd been poked.

"I'm not _hiding_." He breathed, rubbing his face, "They were screaming."

"Since when were you perturbed by screaming?"

"Since when did we take hostages?" Will retorted, dropping the closed book beside him. Hannibal came into the room and rested against the edge of the small dresser beside the door. Will noticed the suit jacket was gone and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

"Do you have a problem with it?"

" _Yes_."

"Why?" Will closed his eyes for a long moment, sighing, "Is it guilt?"

"No." He could've laughed at that, "I don't like keeping them out of view. I don't like keeping them _here_."

Hannibal considered him for a long moment, then: "Would you prefer them to be in view? They could join us for dinner." Will actually stopped to think about that.

"No," He decided, "It would be too awkward; they'd be-- _difficult_."

"Is it about them being in the house, or do you not enjoy the anticipation?" Hannibal questioned, and Will shrugged one-sidedly.

"Perhaps both." He heard Hannibal sigh.

"You enjoy prolonging the death, dragging it out, as it were." Will opened his eyes just to look up at the ceiling, "Why would keeping them captive spoil that?"

Will paused for too long, "I just want to get it over with." He shook his head minutely as he spoke and Hannibal inclined his head.

"No, you don't." Will looked at him then, scowling but a strange vulnerability present in his eyes, "Are you disturbed because you're excited by the prospect?"

Will's eye contact was unwavering, and Hannibal endured it, "I don't know." He finally admitted, quietly. Displays of his power-- _their shared power_ , had always been integrated into the hunting they'd done together. Their hunting of _people_. But it would be revelled in when the victim- or victims- would be least expectant, their terror palpable, the thrill of the killing elevated to a level close to ecstasy, all by the suddenness after a slow burn. The idea of them having foreknowledge did, secretly, entice him. To be seen, fully realised. To instil fear. He'd like watching it in Hannibal, the way he can make people squirm and jump and scuttle from him, how he'd _tried_ to do the same with him. But Will had always been able to understand those boundaries and where to press, testing.

It reminded him of when Hannibal was strapped to the backboard, in a straitjacket, guarded so closely, and yet Will had still taken a step towards him to say _please_. He could hear the air snap between them, feel the people around them go tense with anticipation, like Will was coaxing a feral creature on the verge of tearing his throat out. It was amusing as much as it was arousing. He wanted to have that experience again, for people to witness that game.

"Will?" Hannibal looked at him like he could see the pictures moving behind his eyes, "I've prepared dinner, if you'll have some." Gesturing to the door, he watched Will get up and move to walk past him, but instead stopped to kiss him unexpectedly, drawing him in, so he cradled his waist in his hands.

"Are you testing me?" Will asked against his mouth, bring a hand to his neck and kissing him again, hot and heavy and distracting.

When he stopped, Hannibal answered simply, "You'd know if I was." Will ghosted his mouth over his lips like he was inhaling the words, and pulled back.

"We'll kill them tonight." Will decided, not looking at his face when he said it but his expression impassive. He looked flatly at the fabric of Hannibal's sweater, raising a hand to trace over it, "I'll watch you hurt them- I don't care how. I want to be a guest there, in the shadows." His eyes glanced up to his then, dark and sly.

Hannibal breathed in his scent and bought a hand up to hold his jaw, levelling their gaze, "Anything for you, mano meile." He affirmed, voice low, and kissed him again briefly, before slowly letting go to go downstairs, Will following.

To his surprise, Hannibal didn't prepare the much-anticipated foie gras reimagining, opting for something that smelt fruity and pungent. Hannibal circled the counter and tied his apron, picking up and deftly sliding some diced shallots into a hot pan. Will came up and leant against the countertop: "What's cooking?"

"A beef tenderloin recipe with veal tail, cooked in Merlot wine, with soft cooked shallots and asparagus." He stated plainly, a cheeky glint to his eye that made Will want to grin.

"Like _fuck_ that's beef." He could see Hannibal was smiling as he turned away. Will cocked a brow.

"It was what was called for in the recipe." Hannibal replied smoothly.

"And did you use it?"

Hannibal turned back to him from looking in the oven, then down at the shallots, "No." Will sniffed a laugh, somewhat mocking, and walked away to sit at the table.

 

The meal was delicious, much like it always was, but Will found that he had to pace himself. He still ended up eating it too quickly than he probably should have, or normally would, but Hannibal made no comment on it, "Shall I prepare dessert?" He asked over the rim of his glass, the offer knowingly empty, and Will sat back in his chair like he'd caught on.

"No." He dismissed with a slight frown, "But nice try." Hannibal was smiling as he cleared the table, then came back and stood near Will's chair, shrugging on and buttoning his suit jacket, it looking almost black in the low light. Will looked at him with pupils blown wide.

"Shall we?" Will got up casually from his seat, and followed as Hannibal guided him through the doors, and down. Down into what felt like Hell.

When he went down the last step and turned, his heart missed a beat, " _Jesus Christ, Hannibal_."

Their backs were to him, facing the illuminated back wall, the papery whiteness of the light coming from one of the multiple fluorescent lights lining the ceiling. As soon as Eamonn had heard footsteps he began struggling against his restraints and grumbling. The room was an uncomfortable level of dark, shadows lurking ominously in every corner and crevasse like a crepuscular animal lying in wait. There was hanging meat near the couple of racks of wine closest to the door, tools for butchery or general labour hung up to his right, what looked like a metal workbench and tall cupboard in the far left corner of the room.

Plastic sheets were hung up on sections of the walls surrounding the couple, carpeting the floor too, obscuring his vision of the girl somewhat, her outline blurry and hazy as if unfocused. Will moved closer, following Hannibal, then stopping when he had clear view of the scene and leant up against the wall as Hannibal unlocked and prepared something from inside the cupboard.

Will could see that they were both individually hooked up to IV drips, but the woman's head was bowed lower, suggesting she was either asleep or more out of it. Their arms and legs were duct taped to the limbs of the chair tight enough that it could've cut off circulation, clothes messed and dishevelled, hair similar. Eamonn was saying something angry directed at Hannibal behind the tape over his mouth, then turned his head at a strained angle to try to look at Will, the noises sounding pleading, eyes wide, a slither of dried blood on his forehead.

Will's brow furrowed a little, dragging his eyes away from the stirring form of the young woman to look at the door blocking his view to Hannibal: "Why is she still alive?"

"Keep them chatty." Hannibal took out a tray Will didn't see the contents of and put it on the workbench, closing the cupboard again, "I didn't leave enough of the liver in order for it to fully grow back, so she could lapse into a coma in the next few days. For now, she's stable, but rather incoherent." Will nodded once, looking back to her, her fingers flexing against the arms of the chair, head lolling to the side as she raised it. Hannibal snapped on some gloves, "So, Eamonn," He turned to the man in question who was looking at him like he wanted to set him alight, breathing hard, "If I let you speak, will you be polite?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared for full-on dark side murder husbands. And violence. Lots of violence.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments! I totally appreciate every single one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strap yourselves in for torture and death. And a bit of unlikely fluff? Also Will being mildly angry.

To, undoubtedly, everyone's surprise, as soon as Hannibal tore the tape from Eamonn's face he was polite. Silent, in fact. He didn't flinch when the IV needle was torn from his arm and left to bleed. Will could practically feel the man's elevated pulse, eyes fixated, heart wild in his chest as he breathed like a bull ready to charge. But he could not charge, only glower. The woman next to him began whimpering softly and pulling against her restraints in a feeble attempt at freedom. Will watched her, finding pity, but not making any move to show it. Hannibal circled around the chair and stopped directly in front of Eamonn, looking down. The light made his eyes hollow and depthless.

"How do you know me? How did you know where to find me?" Hannibal asked, his tone remarkably relaxed.

Eamonn's voice echoed, raspy with disuse, spitting: "She was on her _fucking holiday!_ " Hannibal stilled for a moment, "She had one bad day! She always got snappy when she had." Hannibal inclined his head fractionally as if examining his words, and took a step toward him.

"Who contacted you?" As soon as he began spewing insults in response Will thought him dead, instantaneously. You're a _fucking_ this and a _fucking_ that. When Hannibal made no further movement, Eamonn spat in his face.

There was a weighted, motionless pause.

Hannibal didn't raise his hand to wipe the spit from his cheek, instead undoing the knot of his tie and removing it with a calmness that just about hid the curl of his upper lip and the twitch in his fingers. He wrapped it tightly around Eamonn's upper left arm where the needle had been, without speaking.

"Maybe you think you're better than anyone else?" Eamonn continued, no fear registering in his voice, "When you're hiding like a fucking _rat_ in a _gutter_." Hannibal moved away to collect what Will assumed would be a concoction of vein-burning drugs to prize the answers from him.

But Hannibal moved all too fast and there was a nauseating _crack_ and a scream as a filleting knife was jammed straight into Eamonn's wrist. You could hear when the bones were separated.

As blood quickly gurgled and fell as soft thuds against plastic, Eamonn writhed in equal anger as he did pain, the chair rocking and creaking, and continued to yell expletives for himself, and for Hannibal. Will adjusted himself against the wall, breathing a long exhale. It didn't particularly surprise him that Hannibal didn't look at him once, either too enthralled in the moment, or the conscious awareness of Will's eyes on him being enough to fuel the fire, so to speak.

"How did you _know_ , Eamonn?" Hannibal's raised voice, even a little, was terrifying and rarely heard. The wailing and swearing continued, _profusely_ , and Will flinched only slightly at the sudden snap of Hannibal's knuckles connecting with Eamonn's face. And again. And _again_ ; misaligning his nose entirely and making blood pool thickly in his mouth, oozing from his lips like hot treacle.

His head dropped back, eyes struggling to open as his face went numb, feeling like it was swelling up. The pain was white hot.

Readjusting his posture, Hannibal stretched out his hand, then promptly walked over and took hold of the back of the woman's chair- who was now sobbing- her squeals louder as Hannibal dragged her chair over, the IV rolling along behind her in jagged pulls that tugged at the needle under her skin, and positioned her to sit opposite an incapacitated Eamonn. She immediately noticed Will's presence in the room and cried out to him, desperate mumblings of _help_ and _please_ audible from behind the gag of tape. The lines of tears down her face, and the pleading in her eyes. She was shaking like an innocent creature after being kicked. Will's inscrutable expression faltered.

"You're a _fucking cannibal_." Eamonn groaned, voice barely above a gruff whisper, Hannibal pausing to regard him in earnest: "And the only regret I have, is wasting my hatred-- _on a lowlife fuck like you."_ He wheezed, almost severed hand spasming, fingers jerking involuntarily whilst he spat blood toward him, but it landing unceremoniously down his chest and into his lap.

"If you won't answer me, Eamonn, this will only get worse." Hannibal clarified, sounding out the words to be heard above the cries of the girl next to him.

Gracefully, he yanked the knife that was pinning Eamonn's blueing wrist to the chair, a pool of blood accumulated underneath it still growing rapidly as he did. Will shifted again and swallowed audibly as Hannibal rounded the unnamed woman's chair, similar to how a big cat would encircle prey, and adjusted his grip on the bloodied knife. He let her begs and screams settle in the air.

But instead of raising the knife again, he went back and placed it down on the tray: "I need to know who wanted you to find me, Eamonn." He then smashed a glass against the counter, casually, "And why you did." Turning back to his girlfriend, he leaned over her again: "Are you going to tell me?" She seemed to be pleading with Eamonn too. But his only response was a choked breath and a wild-eyed, insistent look.

Another deafening scream erupted when Hannibal drove the fractured glass into the side of her exposed thigh, right next to the knee.

 _"Hannibal."_ Will warned, once the scream had died away, his eyes finally locking with his. It made Will's chest tighten, the intensity of it. The exchanged look unyielding, Hannibal straightened up and went to him, blood dripping from he broken bottle in his hand as he did. Will didn't stop staring into his eyes, even when he came right up to him, face inches from his own, caging him against the wall.

"This is what you asked for." He spoke lowly, keen eyes roaming over his features. Will turned his face away somewhat and looked back to the girl suffering, pupils glazed.

"I know."

Hannibal's dark and ravenous attention made his skin feel warm, "This is for both our sakes."

"She's innocent."

"She's a _witness_."

"You're _enjoying_ yourself." He challenged, levelling his gaze again, not submitting under Hannibal's stare or proximity for a second. The obvious submission in the softening of his glare that Will usually got from Hannibal didn't happen, his pupils fixed, _cold_ , the space between them volatile and crowded like the winds before a storm. Will could smell the metallic tinge of the glass still in the grip of the hand by his shoulder. How close it was to his neck.

"And you aren't?" Hannibal asserted, eyes searching. Will only relented in the subtle clench of his jaw, tempted to try for the rule of threes and spit into Hannibal's face, or press his tongue to the sharp, bloodstained glass beside him; just to see what he'd do.

"Kiss me."

And Hannibal did, lecherous and possessive, lips ghosting over each other, chasing, colliding. Will ignored the mutedly distraught crying, now hopeless, and the bouncing tink of Hannibal dropping the broken glass to hold him. Instead, he focused on gripping Hannibal's collar in his fist and the feeling of his mouth against his. When Will pulled away Hannibal leaned in searching for more, momentarily lost in such sensation, and Will had to inwardly school his expression into one of warm but neutral approval, extinguishing the instinctive want to smile at how besotted Hannibal looked.

Will let him go, fingers tracing down his chest, but Hannibal paused to admire him, study him curiously like he could see his thoughts. Until he relinquished and turned back to the task at hand: "You're running out of time, Eamonn."

"I should--" Eamonn slurred, his brain swimming. Hannibal had picked up the knife again, twirling it in his hand, stood behind the woman's chair and stared, "I should've crashed that car when I could have." It seemed like he was speaking more to himself but he phrased it similar to a threat, "I would have loved to--"

"I'm afraid you would've befallen the same fate, either way. That fate, being _this_." Hannibal seized her by the jaw and pulled back to expose the line of her throat and pressed the knife gently to it, just underneath her chin. She spluttered, gasping, balling her hands into fists; her eyes white, wide, and deathly afraid. Eamonn only went visibly taught and flicked his gaze from the blade to Hannibal's crimson-flecked eyes. Will noticeably stirred from his place against the shadowed wall, "Would you rather she kept her tongue, or her eyes?"

Eamonn was silent. Hannibal bowed his head an increment, critical, watching the cogs spin and catch behind Eamonn's face as he deliberated on giving answers or giving pain and trying to stay conscious, frozen and unblinking. Hannibal slowly moved the knife up to hold it in front of her face, so she saw it, and she panicked. Will was the first to snap, "Hannibal."

No response.

"I think, lose the eyes, don't you?" Hannibal was waiting for an answer. Will's voice grew harsh.

"Hannibal, _stop_." None to that either. Eamonn's breathing was faster, blood drying on his lips. Hannibal turned the knife around in his hand so the blade was pointed down in his fist. Realising his words were falling on deaf ears, Will addressed an apparently tongue-tied Eamonn, "Tell him." Nothing, "Tell him. _Now_."

As Hannibal lifted his arm, Will shouted, _"Fucking tell him!"_

"Darcy Taylor." Eamonn's words were quick and sharp, forced out of him, but Hannibal stopped nonetheless. Will knew that name. The name expanded in the air for a pause, no one particularly understanding, until, "She was my _sister_." He seethed, breathing laboured, "And you _murdered her._ InFlorence. _Ate her_ \-- Left her to _rot_ like common _waste_." Will watched as Hannibal's face changed, resolute where he expected clarity, "I don't know who else is looking, for them, but I hope you fucking die." He swallowed blood and bile, _"Both of you."_

"Who's _them?"_ Will asked, not moving into the light.

"She paid a lot- millions; told me where to look. For the sake of her family, and for mine." He laughed, or tried to, an ugly noise clogged by swelling, "It seems you're pretty predictable." He was struggling to keep his eyes open, "But she didn't tell us you'd have _company_." He sounded offended. Hannibal looked over to Will then, the glint of the knife reflecting in his eye, a knowing look. Vaguely amused, even.

"A rich woman searching for me, to protect her family. After all this time. Who do we know that would do that?" Will didn't answer, turning sullen; he might've paled but it could've been the lighting.

Eamonn groaned, waking up a little and leaning over the side of the chair to throw up some clotted blood, then falling back with a thump. It was strikingly obvious that he didn't have long left to live. Neither did the girl, Will noted, having gone weirdly quiet, exhausted of tears and any fight she'd had. Maybe she was horrified but what Eamonn had said too, but it was hard to tell: "Karma _bites_ us all." Eamonn grumbled, barely a whisper.

"Karma may come for me," Hannibal's poise changed, walking-- prowling towards him: "But you're not it." Before Eamonn knew it, his chair was kicked backwards and there was the sound of bone hitting rock as the back of his skull cracked against the plastic covered concrete. It blinded him for a flash, unfortunately still remaining conscious, and he was only able to make gargled sounds as Hannibal looked down at him. Looming. He couldn't move as he felt the sole of Hannibal's shoe firmly on his chest, pushing down. The pressure on his sternum built, and built, and built, lungs wheezing, straining against his ribs, pain flooding as if his ribcage was filling up with it, then a crunching snap as his sternum caved in, chest cavity collapsing in on itself.

The last thing Eamonn Taylor experienced was a final scream lost to white noise, and the warm spatter of fresh blood against his face.

Will didn't watch the act of Hannibal slitting the girl's throat, but saw as her eyes went still and glassy- the blood still seeping into the fabric of her clothes when he tore his eyes away, exhaling the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, "When he doesn't report in, there will be more who'll come looking. They could be professionals, too."

"And they won't find anything." Hannibal assured, dropping the knife back on the workbench and pulling off the blood-soaked plastic gloves, "Although, hiring vengeance-fuelled relatives is rather inspired." Will just scoffed a laugh in reply, rolling up his sleeves to help Hannibal clean up.

 

In the light of the fireplace, it occurred to Will that this calm, distinguished version of Hannibal he was watching sip wine wasn't dichotomised from the one he'd watched torture, brutalise, and kill. Even though they could be easily read by him and discerned, they were not separate. And never were.

Those versions were housed in the same cage, not grappling, not warring; just shifting, changing not like a form within a dream, but the elusive changes of the sea- physical and familiar, but adapting. Like Proteus.

_And he will only answer to someone who is capable of capturing the beast._

"I can't understand why." Will spoke up, pouring himself a generous amount of some fancy bourbon Hannibal had gotten him when he'd gone to get ingredients. But it was a wordless gift, just left for him to find.

"Why, what?" Hannibal asked, looking at the flames.

"Why go after you? After all this time? It's been, what-- _two years?_ Even the FBI supposedly thinks we're both dead." He twirled the liquid in the glass, a scowl denting his brow, "We aren't even on the top ten most wanted anymore, but this guy turns up _knowing_ you? _Finding_ you?" Will looked to a strangely quiet, far-off Hannibal. If he didn't know him, he'd think he wasn't listening, "I don't get it. Why would Alana want to find you-- us, _now?"_ As soon as the words left his mouth Hannibal lowered his glass from his face and looked down at it, instead of at him: "Hannibal?" He glanced at him, but only for a second. Did he look... _guilty?_

Oh, fuck.

"Hannibal. _What did you do?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find out in the next part of the series! Don't you just love a cliffhanger.
> 
> Darcy Taylor is canonically Hannibal's first victim noticed by law enforcement, if you didn't know. Don't know why I assume people do.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://acannibalseyrie.tumblr.com)!


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